Bloodbound: The Alliance
Chapter 67 - 69

Chapter 67: Chapter 69

Avara POV

Growing up as the only girl between my father and brothers. I’m used to being the chef, cleaner and referee. But today I feel like a housewife. I’m all dressed up for dad’s important visitors with my hair held up in sophisticated chignon with a floral and fitted open-back dress to match as I prance around in heels. I pause when I can hear my father’s foghorn voice greet his guests as he ushers them into the dining room, where I already have the table decked with appetizers.

With the chicken Marbella nearing its final stages, its aroma filling the kitchen with a medley of garlic, herbs, and prunes, I grab the uncorked vintage wine bottle and head out to welcome our guests. Emerging from the kitchen, I step through the large archway into the dining room, only for my grip on the bottle to falter when my eyes land on him.

Landen.

Amid the sea of tailored suits and prim laughter, he stands out like a flame in a darkened room. His gaze locks onto mine with an intensity that sends a chill coursing through me, his lips curling into the devil’s own smile—a smirk that brims with mischief and veiled menace. It lingers for only a moment before he dons the perfect mask of charm, easily falling into conversation as someone approaches him. My father wasn’t exaggerating about the caliber of tonight’s attendees. Among them are a few familiar figures—members of the executive branch in state government—but all of that is eclipsed by Landen’s presence.

My father, ever the commanding host, orchestrates the room with practiced ease, ushering everyone to their seats. I follow in his wake, offering polite smiles as I move around the table, ready to pour wine for anyone who requests it. Of course, the first voice to rise above the hum of conversation is his.

"Wine for me, please, my love," Landen says, his tone smooth, drawing the attention of the table like a magnet.

Before I can respond, one of the men chuckles and leans forward, lifting his glass. "Landen, you don’t deserve such an endearing woman," he remarks, his voice thick with male and misogynistic camaraderie. Laughter ripples around the table in agreement, each chuckle more grating than the last.

Landen flashes a grateful grin, one so dazzling it almost masks the darkness that lingers just beneath the surface. Almost.

The man presses on, emboldened by the laughter. "Especially one so subservient," he adds, his gaze sliding over me with a careless, leering interest. "They certainly don’t make them like that anymore."

For a moment, the air shifts, the warmth of the room replaced by something far colder. Landen’s smile vanishes in an instant, his face hardening like thunderclouds gathering on the horizon. His voice, when it comes, is deceptively calm, yet every word lands with precision.

"No woman is made for a man’s service," he says, the subtle steel in his tone silencing the table. "It is man who should serve her."

A flicker of surprise crosses my face as I pour the wine into his glass, his words catching me off guard. Then, as though to propel his declaration, Landen places a hand on the small of my back. The touch is light, almost affectionate, but it sends an icy shiver down my spine, the weight of it far heavier than it should be. I stiffen, pulling away as soon as I finish filling his glass, careful not to let my unease show.

Depositing the bottle on the table, I excuse myself and retreat to the kitchen, my heart hammering in my chest. The men’s voices hum in the background, but I don’t listen. I can’t. My father, the man I thought would stand up for me, said nothing. Instead, it was Landen—the last person I expected—who spoke up in my defense.

And I don’t know whether to feel relieved or trapped.

Before I know it, the main course is ready. I return to collect the side plates that show no evidence, no crumb nor a lick of sauce to show that there was once food. Soon I serve the marbelle chicken and moans rumble through the room as they inhale the scent.

Once the last plate is served and the dining room swells with conversation, I retreat to the kitchen. The clink of utensils and muffled laughter drift from the other room, but I shut it out. My hands tremble slightly as I dump dirty plates into the kitchen sink, the sound of porcelain against stainless steel punctuating the tense silence of the kitchen.

Then, a shadow spills across the counter in front of me, and my pulse quickens. I don’t need to turn around to know who it is. Landen’s presence is undeniable, his gaze like a burn on the back of my neck, sharp and unrelenting. I busy myself with the dishes, scrubbing harder than necessary, hoping the noise will drown out the overwhelming tension.

"I’ve seen more of your father tonight than I have of you," Landen murmurs, his voice soft but unmistakably invasive.

"Well," I reply curtly, not breaking my rhythm. "I don’t see a problem with that."

"But I do," he counters, his tone darkening with an edge that sets my nerves alight. "Especially when I’d prefer to see... more of you."

Before I can respond, his fingertip brushes against the bare skin of my back. My breath catches as he traces a languid, deliberate line down my spine, his touch light but scalding, leaving a trail of unease in its wake. The air grows heavy, the hum of the house fading into a distant buzz.

When his finger reaches the end where my dress permits no more, he pauses, hooking it into the fabric there and tugging hard to force me flush against his front. He seizes me and spins me around only to bring me back against him, this time, chest to chest. His hand plants firmly on my hips, his other arm pinning me close with an intimacy that feels suffocating rather than secure.

"Landen."

"Baby," he jeers.